Second Sun
by Persephone Kore
Summary: A problem of mistaken identity throws Stryfe into combat on the same side as his family for once, and from the pain afterwards comes a measure of peace.


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Disclaimer: Naturally, all characters and the universe belong to Marvel and no financial gain is expected from this story. Many thanks to Mitai, who inspired the story, provided an incredible line to put in it, and is drawing the picture whose image the story was written to surround. Thanks also to Alicia for her help with Cable. 

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Second Sun  
by Persephone

Scott's head jerked up as one final crash and explosion shook the ground. The battle was over. It should have been over before; he'd thought it was until the last of the renegade Shi'ar fleet limped over the rubble-strewn field and plummeted to Earth in a final kamikaze strike. It failed. A few ships had come, unbidden, to strike down the "Chaos-Bringer" -- not realizing that Jean, if ever she had been, was no longer the Phoenix. 

He still didn't know what Stryfe had been doing there. It had been a shock when he showed up, more of one when he fought on their side. Of course, the fact that the Shi'ar had been broadcasting demands for the Chaos-Bringer's blood -- and the fact that Stryfe had been in as much danger from the blasts as anyone else -- probably had something to do with that last. Cable had been patently disgusted at having to fight alongside his clone, but not enough so to ignore the immediate threat....

They had made a surprisingly good team. By all normal logic, a battle between a few dozen individuals, even super-powered ones, and a small fleet of armored and high-firepower air-to-space ships should have been a resounding victory for the fleet. But these were the X-Men (mostly) and the X-Men were family, and normal logic did not necessarily apply. Strategy did, though, and had been well applied indeed. It had taken hours, and brought the team and their unexpected ally near to exhaustion, but the ships had been forced to land, maneuvered into the ground, tricked into destroying each other, or – in a few memorable and somewhat disturbing cases -- crushed or torn apart in midair by blindingly bright golden tendrils. 

Scott caught his breath, recalling one startlingly vivid flash from Jean's mind: Stryfe loomed over her, adding his strength to hers -- his telekinetic shield reinforcing her own against a shot that should have been deadly. Scott cringed internally at the thought of what that beam would have done if it had broken through, as Jean had known it would break through her unaided shields. Still clearer than the crash of an energy beam against the combined shield, than her brush with death, was the peculiar expression on Stryfe's face as he stared down at her....

Jean was fine. One swift mindtouch had been enough to reassure him of her safety. That last desperate ship had fallen nowhere near her. The momentary, unguarded telepathic shriek of agony had come from the opposite direction -- and it was in that direction that Scott sprinted, trying desperately to prepare for what he knew he would find. 

His heart racing, Scott tore over scarred ground and past smoking wreckage until he glimpsed a flash of familiar, still-bright metal. Seconds later, heedless of the shards grinding into flesh on impact, he thudded to his knees beside his son. 

The ground was darkly wet. Blood. Far too much of it. The ground was red anyway, to Scott, but this was the wrong red, deeper, soaking the dirt and turning it black, the odor heavy on the air. _No chance_, the analytical part of his mind told him, _no chance of rescue now_. _Too late_, it said. He cursed it, silently, viciously, as his vision blurred with tears that wouldn't quite fall. 

Stryfe stirred, looking up and blinking as his eyes refused to focus. Scott stared back into mismatched eyes and features he saw almost daily on another man. The helmet was broken; the glittering pieces of the mask had fallen away with an irritable motion of Stryfe's head. The glint of light from Stryfe's left eye was dull, a half-hearted mimicry of the usual sun-gold blaze. Scraps of bright metal and the strange dull synthetics of the Shi'ar vessel's exploded fuel tank littered the ground or dug into the flesh of a body as surely broken as the armor that had failed to protect it. 

Apparently Stryfe had also thought the battle was over moments too soon. Scott cringed as his testing hands discovered that most of the bones in the left half of Stryfe's body had shattered with the impact from the explosion. Trembling, he tried to stanch the blood from the worst of the wounds. 

"Oh, stop it." Stryfe's voice was a faint rasp. Scott saw him swallow twice, convulsively, before he continued. "There's no point and we both know it." 

Scott watched blood spurt even between his pressing fingers and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before gazing again at Stryfe's face. #_So like Nathan... if only_....# His lips tightened at the thought. #If only we'd been able to save him.# He tried, fumblingly, to reach out mentally and met only an implacable wall. "I can't just --" His voice broke. 

Stryfe laughed harshly. His voice was clearer now but still rough. "What, no smile? No celebration? Don't hide your elation on my account, _Slym_. Don't pretend to regret the death of the son you never accepted!" 

Scott flinched back; it couldn't have hurt worse if Stryfe had somehow found the strength to seize a jagged shard of the metal strewn on the ground and twist it into his heart. The tears did fall then, tickling by the edge of his visor until they found their way out and spilled down his face. He bowed his head and watched them splash in the blood covering his hands. 

The blood covering his hands. It was true; there was no use in putting pressure on the wounds now – the blood already lost would have to be restored and Stryfe would probably be dead before a transfusion could be of help, even if one could be begun immediately. "Stryfe, I...." 

Stryfe tried feebly to wrench away, hissing, "Don't even try! It's too late -- too late for any false regrets, too late to save my life." He coughed, and glared. "If there were the slightest chance it would help," he stopped to swallow. "You wouldn't even be making that -- token effort to stop the bleeding, so give it up!" 

"Yes. I. Would." Scott took a deep, shuddering breath, and reluctantly conceded his battle with the welling blood. He moved to cradle Stryfe's head and shoulders, lifting him very gently to ease a sudden coughing fit. Stryfe finally caught his breath, wheezing, and tried to scowl up at him, but his expression grew uncertain as Scott's tears landed on his face. "Blazes, Stryfe, do you really believe -- you do, don't you? I swear, if there were anything I could do...." 

"You... never... _cared_!" A single tear traced a jagged path across Stryfe's cheek, glinting in the sun. 

It wasn't even remotely fair, and Scott knew it, to do such a thing to a weakened, dying telepath. That didn't stop him from wrapping up every shred of regret, every sympathy, every moment of the guilt and longing that had torn his heart whenever he thought of the child he'd lost -- and the anguish, when he and Jean -- Redd -- had been unwillingly returned to their own time, that had been almost as much for leaving Stryfe there as for leaving Nathan -- and thrusting the emotions, the memories, against Stryfe's wavering shield. The barrier gave way and Stryfe flinched as his shields crumbled. Scott, now mindlinked to him, winced as well before gasping in shock as Nathan -- tactfully remaining several steps back -- somewhat grouchily threw shields around both of the men on the ground. He could still sense Jean, now finished skimming through a telepathic roll call and injury report, go abruptly alert and start in his direction. 

Stryfe blinked up at him, his own tears now flowing as freely as Scott's. "You... did." He closed his eyes for a moment and tried one last time. "It's... too late... for regrets." 

"I know." Scott swallowed hard, trying to pour comfort -- or at least the sense that he would be mourned -- to his son across their tenuous link. He felt Jean, rose-warm flooding their own rapport and her shields wrapping them along with Cable's as she, tears burning her own eyes, approached, reached out mentally.... He felt her gasp as transmitted pain shot through her, driving her to her knees even as she blocked it away from Stryfe and clutched desperately, determinedly to hold the man's psyche to his failing body with her own mind. He felt Stryfe's stubborn, lifelong belief that no one cared, ever had or ever would care for him... falter. "But if you try to tell me sorry has no meaning...." 

Stryfe made a noise that probably should have been a laugh. Too weak now to speak, he sent_, ~I'm _not_ Askani. Never was. And... it's better... than nothing_.~ 

******* 

Cable stood at a distance, left eye blazing, blocking outside telepathic "noise" from his father and his clone as best he could. He had hauled Jean to her feet and now supported her with one arm as she leaned on him, weeping against his ribs. Through her sobs she had murmured something muffled about being unable to keep hold, to keep anchor.... She was still trying. Scott, in now blood-mottled blue and gold, knelt cradling Stryfe's broken form. Sunlight gleamed uncaringly off the ruby visor, the shattered armor, the blood, the torn cape, the tears on both men's cheeks. 

Cable didn't particularly feel like crying. 

Anxiety mounted to near panic as, despite his efforts not to eavesdrop, Cable sensed Stryfe dying – and Scott, still linked to him, beginning to fade. Jean's mind held tight to them both, through her rapport with Scott; she wasn't making any move to withdraw_.... ~Let go, let him go! Oath, I know he helped, but he's not worth both your deaths, stay with me..._.~ It took nearly all his will not to send, not to say the words. In the moment before he would have _had_ to step in and tear Scott free, Cable was stunned to feel Stryfe, with his last breath and strength, close off the mental contact and push their parents' minds gently away. 

~_I don't believe... he actually_....~ Cable's mind reeled with the realization of what Stryfe had done -- and the inescapable mindbrush that had told him exactly how hard it had been to release that ached-for comfort. He finally went, guiding Jean, to his father's side as Scott's head bowed and his shoulders shook harder with sobs. 


End file.
